


Jon's nightmare

by shadova



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Battle, Blood and Gore, Emotional Roller Coaster, Other, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-14 00:38:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18042122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadova/pseuds/shadova
Summary: In the weeks following the wall falling at Castle Black, the tension becomes too much for Jon to bear. When he slips into a slumber, the events that could happen in the next few weeks unravel before his eyes.





	Jon's nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> **THIS IS IN NO WAY RELATED TO THE STORYLINE OF GOT. IF YOU ARE NOT UP TO DATE IN THE TV SHOW, PLEASE DO NOT READ AHEAD. SPOILERS MAY BE PRESENT**

Snow layered the chosen battlefield. For days, flakes had been falling across the land to bury it and establish that the words his father once said rung true; Winter is coming.  
Well... Winter was HERE.  
At the gates of Winterfell, with faces all frozen in terror for what was to come, stood the little forces they had mustered to clash against the blades of certain death owned by the army of the Dead. Many soldiers without known names sat atop horses, while those with a true sense of battle preferred staying on the icy ground, as to not be at a disadvantage if they were to be forced off their mounts.

Anxiety curled within guts that spread across Winterfell. Men and women alike all stood their ground, watching, waiting, for that outrageous army to come into their sights. Brienne of Tarth gripped the handle of her sword with a grip that could fracture bones, while Podrick kept his sheathed, or else he unleashed upon those that meant no harm from the tension.  
Jorah merely stared with eagle awareness at the horizon, sweat beading on his forehead, despite the chilled wind that threw snow in all directions, clinging to their fur coats that attached to armour. Not like it would matter once those bastards got their hands on them.

And there, perched on a tower that showed its sturdiness, was Rhaegal, green and bronze scales glinting in the full moon rays. His wings were a discoloured shade of orange, as the vibrancy was cloaked by the dark essence of the night. A man with clothing that blended with the surrounding abyss that promised to swallow those left forgotten and perished, was Jon, hair bound by a single band to keep it from being a distraction once their eagerly awaited foes arrived. Dark eyes were on the look out; as if he had the vision of the dragon he was riding.

Drogon, who sported Daenerys, flew overhead; cautious of the spear of ice and death that the Night King could summon from thin air, but far enough away to try and spot them from a healthy distance and roar a warning. So far, only the sounds of reigns clinking, the whistling of the wind, and the booming of somewhat distant wings whisked by their open ears. Where were they? Jon had been calculating ever since the wall fell how long it’d take them to arrive at Winterfell, so someone should have seen them well and truly by now. It made his every nerve twitch.

And then Drogon screeched.  
Every soldier tensed, hands snapping to the hilts of their blades or tightening around them. One woman even began quietly sobbing; a plea to the Gods that they would make it through this, live to see another sunrise.  
Two hooves came into the furthest part of the moonlights radius, before the one responsible for their loss of a dragon emerged, the night seemingly peeling away from him in thick strands... as if it had cloaked him.

Anxiety that could be passed as a school of piranhas unleashing themselves onto his intestines and stomach, Jon rose longclaw high above his head, bellowed a war cry that shook the very stones beneath them, and Rhaegal drowned him out with his own shriek. Claws sung against stone as the dragon took flight, their cry for victory echoed by the charging men and women below.  
Jon tucked himself further against Rhaegal's hide to minimize the snowflakes that stung his cheeks, the blistering winds that yearned to eat away at his skin, and so he could see more clearly.  
The horde was separated into chunks that spread out across the snowy, barren land, attempting to attack from all angles and gain the advantage on them.  
Daenerys was already soaring down, down, down, Drogon's wings tucked tightly against his body to propel him faster, his large jaws opening to unleash a spiralling storm of fiery death upon a small section of them. Good. She was playing it smart by staying as far away as she could manage from the Night King.

Jon followed suit, and attacked a small squadron of wights that had detached from the bulk of the horde. Rhaegal let out a victorious shriek that reverberated off each bone in his body as he diverted and flew up and up, regaining the distance that would prevent the Night King from claiming another one of their lives.  
Speaking of... Where in the hell was Viserion?  
A blood-curdling cry from over the other side of the battlefield spread throughout the land, which drew his attention instantaneously. 

Drogon was plummeting, the last ends of a breath of fire winking out as he spiralled and struggled to set himself right. No sign of danger, but a large sign of injury on the dragon's left side. Rhaegal didn’t wait for any orders before he was already flying towards his falling brother.  
Jon's heart thumped against his ribcage. Gloved fingers gripped Rhaegal's scales tighter, urging the dragon to make it—and he did. Rhaegal had flown directly underneath Drogon, catching the larger dragon with his tail, and spinning him so violently that he was set straight.  
Daenerys didn't waste time, but sent him straight up into the clouds.  
Rhaegal was already at a respectable distance away from the war.  
~~  
Metal sung against metal and ice on the ground.  
Jorah had taken down a dozen of the savage creatures without earning a single graze. Eyes that showed desperation for a victory peered around for a place to recover some stamina, before his blade clashed with another wight, its frozen and cracked teeth snapping at him, yearning to shred skin and claim a life. Jorah shoved his weight into his weapon and sliced right through the wight's skeletal frame.  
He panted. Snow may be everywhere around them, but he was dripping with sweat.  
A scream sounded from his right, and he had enough spare time to seek out what it was.

A wight. Straddling the waist of Podrick. It's teeth embedded into the boys throat.  
A yell of despair, and a blade swung right through the wight's body. Jorah caught sight of short, cropped, blonde hair as the woman knelt beside the dying boy. A gloved hand placed itself on Podrick's cheek, a weak, defeated smile on her face, as Brienne of Tarth put an end to his suffering... Just as a handful of the savages pounced on her, fingers grasping at her armour, her hair, overpowering her...  
Jorah didn't know when he’d started running. Or cutting down those feral beasts in his path.  
Using their distraction against them, Jorah easily ended their ravaging, his every short breath clouding in the air in front of him.  
The woman lay on the ground, hands finding their purchase on the wet terrain and pushed herself to her feet. Gratitude shone in her eyes. But when she winced, Jorah saw the deep gouge in her right trap muscle... cut clean through the metal of her armour.

They shared the same, knowing look.  
“I’m fine,” she insisted. “Really. I can continue fighting. I can take down many more of these bastards until I meet my true end.”  
“You don't have long until you fall to their strength, Brienne... Your injury in the place it is will prevent you from continuing your part in this battle,” Jorah half shouted in response.  
Brienne's face softened. She knew. She knew what was to come if she continued. Still, she lifted her chin and stared him down. “Then I will continue fighting with honour if you will allow me my chosen end, Jorah Mormont.”  
So he nodded his understanding, angled his blades, and dove back into the heat of the battle.  
~~  
Jon couldn't believe his eyes. A wight had somehow managed to cling to Rhaegal's tail and scale the underside of the dragon, eyes hungry for the kill on which rode atop its vehicle.  
Rhaegal knew of the intruder and flung the savage little thing before he even got close to causing any damage. Hopefully the impact of when it hit the ground would make it incapacitated.  
Podrick was dead, Brienne spared from her fate by Jorah. Many bodies littered the snowy surface. They had only cut down just under a quarter of the horde. They needed another approach; one that could end in the death of more valuable assets than a hundred of their soldiers combined. But to save more lives...  
In a blinding speed, Rhaegal was barged out of his smooth rhythm of flight, his body spinning in mid air thrice as a blur of the cause vanished.  
Jon’s eyes darted around, finger joints aching with the effort it took to keep himself seated firmly against the dragon's scales.  
Again, the blend of black and dark blue attacked from the side, earning a cry of pain that rattled every solid thing within a mile radius.  
Jon lost his grip and slid down a few meters, trying to fight the urge to plunge a dagger into Rhaegal's hide to stop himself from sliding any further.  
He caught some leverage and hoisted himself back up to where he felt most comfortable, before his mount shuddered from a bigger impact than before, which sent Jon down to the base of Rhaegal's spikey tail.

Flame spewed out from the cavern that was Rhaegal’s mouth, aiming for something he could not yet see, until piercing, vibrant blue eyes greeted him milliseconds before the fourth attack.  
Jon lost all hope of footing and grip. He fell overboard.  
Large talon-like fingers wrapped around him, the scent of hot coals and rotting sheep bodies greeting his nostrils as Rhaegal closed one of his hind legs around his frame.  
And then Rhaegal took off, hoping to out-fly the dragon he once called his brother. Viserion was monstrously fast, his wings ripped and sporting so many holes that it made him wonder how he even left the ground at all.  
Swerving and abrupt-turns were taken, circles made around the battlefield to try and shake the pursuer, but Viserion didn't seem to be struggling. He seemed to be toying with them by making them think that they were faster.  
Viserion neared, his jaws parting, and Jon caught sight of a mixture of blues and blacks brewing at the back of his throat.

But then he was gone, tackled to the endless space beneath them by a black and red-scaled dragon. A flash of pure white hair flew past atop it.  
Jon's heart leapt into his throat. Rhaegal released Jon moments before his two large feet hit the ground, causing his tiny in comparison body to tumble and roll, furry cape collecting snow. Rhaegal's wings were already in position to take off again, but the dragon's head lowered for Jon to get back on properly.  
Jon didn't hesitate to oblige.

Rhaegal sent off a few warning fireballs in Viserion's direction, so carefully and precisely aimed so that they didn't even skim passed Drogon. Viserion's body jerked with the individual impacts, and Rhaegal was off, wings gulping down the wind and using it to propel him further into the sky.  
And, just as his dragon positioned himself into a hover to unleash upon the evil below, an entire large section of the snow below erupted into blue and black flames that spread like a wildfire.

Drogon's pained shrieks died down.

Neither dragon emerged.

Jon’s face screwed into anger, rage, and hatred as the desire for revenge sent his eyes searching for the Night King. Many more bodies were covering the surface of the ground, both remnants of the skeletal army, and either pulled-apart or intact vanquished allies, all laying in their own individual pools of blood and indent in the stained snow.

He would grieve later. After the final casualty count. But right now...

With a heel jammed into Rhaegal's side, the dragon shot down, slithering through the night, scales illuminated by the moonlight, as his snout aimed right for that smug piece of shit atop his dead horse.  
Those icy eyes were watching them with a killing calm; a calm that made his blood boil. He could massacre hundreds upon thousands of innocents, and still look like he hadn’t a care in the world.  
A spear generated within his hand, elongated, and catapulted toward them. It barely missed Rhaegal's underscales.  
Rhaegal swooped down in the time it took to form another one of those objects of certain death, unleashed a large fireball that had been brewing since the start of their descent, and flew back up, up, up, into the starry sky, his wings furiously flapping.  
The flames engulfed those standing on the slightly elevated patch of land, as though that was their observing space to see how their lackeys performed, and just when the wait was long enough to hint at their deaths... the flames gave way, and out came the Night King on foot, his horse waiting obediently with the others. The flames died down to a medium height, revealing flashes of the walkers between the fire.

Rhaegal recognized the challenge within the Night King's unearthly glare and shot down once more. Jon struggled to keep hold, his gut screaming with uncertainty.  
Another spear. Another calculating look. Another raised arm to position the tip of it, to aim it at the one surviving dragon.

A flash of white interrupted, causing the spear to be thrown off-course and miss Rhaegal by a long shot. And to his horror, down there mauling the throwing arm of the Night King, was Ghost. Red eyes glowed through the night, canines attempting to rip off the limb that yearned to claim two lives; one of which he was bound by duty to protect.  
Jon's heart plummeted into the deepest pit of his stomach.  
Ghosts fur shuddered with the ferocity of the jerks he made as he tried to rip the arm clean off.  
The Night King merely studied the hound with what appeared to be boredom, elevated his arm to eye-level, the dire wolf in tow, and lifted his free hand.  
Jon sent Rhaegal plummeting to the ground, the wind nearly ripping into whatever skin was visible and unshielded.  
But he didn't have enough time before a smaller spear was conjured and thrust into Ghosts side, skewering the wolf's ribcage. The whine echoed across the land, strangled Jon's eardrums as he returned that cry of defeat and loss.

Rhaegal was still darting toward the Night King, when the icy man's attention redirected to them, summoned yet another spear, and threw it directly at them, the tip seemingly aiming for the spot between Jon's eyebrows.

Jon awoke saturated in his own sweat, his chest rising and falling, his naked body sitting up on the silken sheets sprawled across the king-sized mattress that was beneath deck. A hand rose to swipe the sweat from his eyes, his face, and dark eyes peered around the dimly lit room for reassurance that he was alive, that he wasn’t in the middle of a war.  
The mattress shifted from beside him, and his attention instantly snapped to the woman that lay there, the white sheet barely covering her assets.  
White hair fanned out messily across the crinkled pillows beneath her head, a hand innocently placed alongside her cheek for comfort, her right leg raised and bent with the knee brushing her elbow.

A sigh of relief nearly caved in his lungs as a trembling hand reached over to move a few of those strands away from her face. For reassurance or comfort, he wasn’t sure, but what he did know was that he was fucking grateful that it had been a nightmare and not the truth.  
So Jon treated it as such and sunk back down into the pillows, one arm sliding beneath Daenerys' head, and the other folding around her midsection to pull her closer, his nose already in the middle of inhaling her promising scent.  
They were alive. And it was only a nightmare.


End file.
